


caught up in the motion (backtrack, and do it again)

by whyyesitscar



Series: burn this city and go [1]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, and mentions of the rest of the bad kids, set post sophomore year finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: There are ways in which Mordred Manor is like Leviathan, and there are ways in which it is like a home./ or: fig and ayda take some time to relax, after the forest
Relationships: Adaine Abernant & Ayda Aguefort, Ayda Aguefort/Figueroth Faeth
Series: burn this city and go [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697758
Comments: 20
Kudos: 133





	caught up in the motion (backtrack, and do it again)

**Author's Note:**

> we've gotta have some kind of hyperfixation during this quarantine, right? fair warning that i'm not on the autism spectrum so if anything feels off or inauthentic about ayda's voice, please let me know. she's tricky to write, especially since so much of her personality comes from how brennan physically portrays her. this started as one idea and morphed into something entirely different, so i have a tentative plan for a few more fics to compensate and round it out.
> 
> anyway, brennan and emily said gay rights.
> 
> title + lyrics from "where to begin" by bowling for soup; please enjoy!

_break away, break away from me.  
_ _no, forget that—just sit here and look at me.  
_ _summer's day, summer every day:  
_ _watch the sunset come back up  
_ _and we know it's never goin’ down again.  
_ _i wanna find a piece of your mind;  
_ _i wanna see your make believe._  
_i don't want to try so hard  
_ _i make it hard for you to breathe._

/

Mordred Manor is not unlike a pirate city.

It is not as violent, and certainly there is less murder—at least within its walls; you’ve heard stories of freshman year from Fig and the rest of ~~her~~ your friends. It is quieter, though not by much, and packed almost as tightly, considering how many people reside within it.

It reminds you most of your library, and it would even if your father had not magically connected the two. Both are buildings on the mend and contain multitudes, from their inhabitants and the dizzying amount of rooms and passages. You have a blueprint for the library—physically in your quarters, as well as figuratively in your head. You make a note to devise the same for the manor, though you think it might not take several lifetimes to do so.

Still, you feel comfortable inside of a puzzle, and even more so with Fig at your side.

There are ways in which Mordred Manor is like Leviathan, and there are ways in which it is like a home.

You start a tally for each.

/

Kristen’s new deity is exceptionally powerful and heals everyone, but you feel fatigue linger in your body almost as if it has taken root in your bones. Impossible, you know, though even you are not immune to metaphor. Occasionally there are lingering effects from magic, and logically it makes sense that this might be one of those moments—the same magic that is powerful enough to heal on an enormous scale is equally capable of hurting, which Cassandra was doing not that long ago. You’re not certain how many days you spent in the Nightmare Forest, and you may never be considering the deft and unreliable time dilation that permeated the area.

Almost everyone is lively enough on the way back to Solace, laughing and cheering as Cassandra makes pit stops in Arborly and Leviathan. But quiet comes once the house is in view, a kind of solemnity or maybe just relief. You’ll have to ask Fig later.

The group disperses to their respective houses; Fabian rides on the Hangman next to Gorgug as he and Riz drive home. (You learn later that, while Gorgug and Riz live near each other, Fabian does not. You understand the need to be close to people you love, though you differ from Fabian in that you will eventually admit that need after some prodding, or sometimes even unprompted.)

More people linger at Morded Manor than you’d expect, and you furrow your brows as you size up the house.

“This is mysterious,” you mutter, eyes scanning quickly over broken windows and warping wood.

“Yeah, it’s a trip, huh? Super spooky.”

Fig stands next to you, suddenly. She has a habit of doing that, absent one moment and very close to you the next. In spite of her animated personality she is skilled at sneaking up on you in a way that you haven’t yet been able to turn back on her. You radiate extreme amounts of heat, which makes stealth a near impossibility.

Fig slips her hand into yours and it’s warmer than before—her trip to Hell afforded her more than answers. Perhaps someday she will match your lingering fire and you will simply have to be aware of each other at all times.

Dreams are difficult for you to understand, but you still have them.

“It is spooky,” you answer, “though that’s not what I was referencing. This is wrong.” You point at the exterior walls, which look like they’re bulging from the inside. “You’ve said that many people live in this house, yet this building isn’t big enough to contain everyone. Logically, ten people should not be able to live here.”

“Maybe you just don’t...have all the evidence?” Fig shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m new to academic-speak, I guess.”

“But we don’t connect on an academic level.”

“We could, though? I know communication is sometimes confusing.” Fig looks up at you and smiles. “I just want to make sure we’re always talking so that we both understand each other.”

Your heart races, and you watch Fig’s eyes follow your hair as it flares upward.

“I cherish you.”

Fig blushes and looks down. You wonder if her hair would flare, were it flames as well.

She smiles again and squeezes your hand. “I cherish you, too,” she says, after opening and closing her mouth a few times. “I would also cherish a nap right now.”

“Can you passively cherish a nap, or is it decided on a case-by-case basis? Also, did I hear you correctly when you said earlier that you slept underneath a piano, because I can’t imagine that would be very conducive to a nap.”

Fig looks up and considers your questions. “I pretty much always cherish naps, actively and passively; you kind of develop that after being on tour for a while. But sometimes you just _need_ one, you know? Sometimes I feel like my body weighs hundreds of pounds and the only thing that would make that feeling go away is to sleep.”

You scoop her up and try not to think about the last time you flew with her.

“You do not weigh hundreds of pounds,” you say as she wraps her arms around your neck.

Fig grins. “Would you carry me even if I did?”

“I would attempt to.”

Fig leans up and kisses you, soft and sweet, a gentle press of warm lips. You feel your wings start to flutter and lift you off the ground. Flying is usually something you have to do with intention, a conscious decision made when it’s necessary and rarely for pleasure. You’ve noticed a change in patterns in the last few weeks, and you’ve been surprised by it even though you are no stranger to learning things about yourself.

Perhaps your surprise comes from the fact that this is something you haven’t learned through your notes. It will be in future iterations, though now even the act of thinking about your next life churns your stomach.

You smile down at Fig, let out a small chirp as she wipes a tear from your cheek, and begin to fly in earnest. She points out the various rooms as you circle the house, explaining who lives in which one or what the purpose of each room is. She points toward Adaine’s tower—rickety, precarious, and terrifying, though you understand why she picked it. You circle the structure a few times and laugh as Fig yells each time you pass a window.

Adaine sticks her head out of one of them and you almost run into her.

“You could just come in, you know.”

Fig shrugs as much as she can while you’re still holding her. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Of course, because shouting is definitely not bothersome.”

“It is bothersome,” you frown. You look between Fig and Adaine, who are both smiling, and nod. “Yes. I see. Is it better to bother someone with permission?”

“At that point, it’s not really bothering anymore,” Fig explains.

Adaine steps away from the window. “Whatever you’re doing, you can do it inside.”

You fly through, careful not to bump Fig into anything. Adaine’s room is spacious and clean, everything in its place even if those places are awkwardly sized due to the circular walls.

“You can stay, if you want,” Adaine offers.

Fig slips out of your arms like water, yawning the whole way down. “Thanks, but I’m gonna crash.” She stretches and cracks her back, looking at you. “You don’t have to come right away, if you wanna chill here.”

“But I’m not—” You pause and take a moment to think, to quiet your instinct to be literal. Relationships should be balanced, and if Fig is trying to change for you, you can afford her an equal effort. “I’d like to speak with Adaine, so I will...chill...here, for a moment. I’ll try not to linger too long—I apologize, Adaine, if that offends you. I value you just as much as I value Fig.”

Adaine smiles and shakes her head. “It doesn’t offend me, and it’s okay to prioritize your girlfriend over your friends sometimes.”

“Oh! Fascinating. I will do my best to determine when it’s appropriate.”

Fig laughs at that, though not at you—never at you. You know she’s a musician, and that she writes most of the songs for her band. You haven’t heard any yet but you’re looking forward to it because most of the music you’re familiar with are pirate shanties, and there is a finite number of those.

Any artistry you have is learned rather than innate. You wonder if maybe you could learn to write songs that sound like Fig’s laugh.

“I’m on the third floor when you’re done. And seriously, don’t worry about splitting time between me and Adaine; I know you like me more,” Fig winks.

You can’t help a smile. “You’re joking.”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

“Incredible. I’ll be down as soon as possible.”

She leaves with a kiss—more chaste than it would be if Adaine weren’t here, you’re sure. You watch Fig walk away, because you can right now and because there aren’t many things you wouldn’t want to watch her do.

“How are you doing?” Adaine asks from behind you.

You crane your head to think. “I’m...not sure. I feel very relieved that we’re out of the forest, and I think it’s amazing that we all emerged relatively unscathed. But I’m also very tired, and I think a little sad. Fig said that sometimes she’s so tired that her limbs feel unbearably heavy. I don’t understand that as I’ve never experienced it myself, but there’s a possibility that I might learn very soon.”

Adaine nods. “That makes sense. We’ve all been through a lot.” She tilts her head toward the door. “I’m absolutely not trying to kick you out, but we can talk later if you want to rest with Fig.”

“I don’t actually want to talk that much,” you say, “but I do have some more questions for you.”

“About Fig?” Adaine smiles.

“No, although they indirectly involve her. She mentioned a few things about this building, namely that: there are more rooms than one would surmise upon looking at it from the outside; there are secret and hidden passages that connect a large portion of these rooms; and that she sleeps underneath a piano.”

Adaine gives small nods to each of your statements. “Yes,” she finally says.

“Is this piano something that two people can fit under?”

“No.”

“Have you gone searching for passages that are connected to your room?”

“I know where the entrances are on my side, but I don’t know where they go.”

“Are there still unoccupied rooms? Mordred Manor houses a surprisingly large amount of residents.”

“I think there are still rooms we haven’t even found.”

“Wonderful. Would you mind if I searched the passages you know about to see if they connect to any empty rooms?”

Adaine grins and squeezes Boggy until he croaks. “I think that’s an awesome idea. And if you don’t find any, you’re welcome to come back later and look for new entrances.”

“If I work quickly and efficiently, I could find new entrances now.”

“You could,” Adaine confirms. “I wouldn’t mind at all. But...I know how much Fig cares for you. She definitely sleeps better when you’re around.”

“Oh.” You scratch one of your feet against Adaine’s carpet. “That’s very sweet.”

“You’re good for her,” Adaine smiles. She puts Boggy down and walks toward her bookcase. “Let me show you the passages I know about.”

There are four so far—one obviously behind a door and three others that require triggers to open. None of the passages themselves are adequately lighted, though your hair and darkvision are enough to overcome the shadows. Two lead to rooms that are already furnished as offices, and another has a blockage a quarter of the way down. You make a note to come back and clear it later.

The fourth is a success, an empty (and dusty) room at the end of a relatively short, though unusually steep passageway. Fig will have fun riding her skateboard down the incline, and you’ll have no problem hovering if you have to. Yes, this will work nicely.

You go back to Adaine’s room and peek your head through the entrance. “Adaine?”

Adaine looks up from her bed, where she is sitting and reading a book. She chuckles when she finds you, pressed between the passage and the portion of her wall that reveals it, which you can only open so far on account of the loveseat in the way.

“I suppose I can move that chair,” she says.

You push a little harder and finally squeeze your way through, catching yourself before you stumble too badly. “That would be nice. How do I get to Fig’s room from here?”

Adaine gives you detailed directions, pausing in between each step so you can repeat it back to her. It’s a complicated house, you learn, and Adaine’s tower is not easily accessible. You could always fly out of one of her windows and into Fig’s, but that won’t always be the most prudent option. Sometimes it rains.

“Is that good enough?”

“Absolutely excellent,” you answer, “though hopefully unnecessary from now on. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Would you like a hug?”

“I’d love one.”

Adaine is small in your arms, and you have to arrange your head so you don’t accidentally burn her. You’re still getting used to regular physical contact, and while most of your experience involves Fig, this is equally as nice.

“I’m very glad you survived the forest,” you say as Adaine leans into you. “I’ve only known you for a few weeks and while I’m not familiar with your fraught family history, I think—bravery in the face of fear is always worthy of pride. I feel proud of you. I hope you feel that for yourself.”

Adaine squeezes just a little tighter and sniffles. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “I think I will, eventually.”

“I’m here, if you ever need a reminder. Although a Sending spell would reach me regardless of location, so I suppose I’m everywhere, if you ever need a reminder.”

Adaine laughs and wipes away a few tears. “Here is better than everywhere.”

“A deceptively profound statement.”

“Yes, well, Fig isn’t the only one who wants you to stick around.”

“How fitting, then, that she’s not the only reason I’m here. Though she is a very large factor.”

“As she should be,” Adaine smiles. She sits back down in her bed and waits for Boggy to jump into her lap. “I’ll let everyone else know not to bother you for a while. Rest as long as you need to.”

“Thank you, Adaine.”

You make the trip to Fig’s room on foot and without making a mistake, thanks to Adaine’s impeccable directions. There is no piano in sight, but there is a bed occupying a space that would also be big enough for a piano. Fig is on top of it, curled on her side.

You climb into the bed next to her, and she exhales a satisfied little hum as she scoots back toward you.

“I see no piano.”

“S’under the floor,” Fig mumbles, very close to sleep. “Thank god you’re here; I almost caved and got up to find a blanket.”

“You no longer need one?”

“You’re my blanket.”

“You’ve said many times that you’re not comfortable expressing nice things, but I’ve found you to be a very skilled practitioner.”

Fig rolls over and adjusts your arms so she is still wrapped in them. She opens her eyes only a little, which seems to be as much effort as she can put forth. “It’s easier with you, I guess,” she shrugs. “Plus, everyone drops their walls when they’re tired.” She yawns, stretching her mouth even wider than you’d thought possible. “If you really want a blanket I can get one.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need one—just you, even if it is trite to repeat your sentiment. It would be impossible for me to fall asleep alone right now.”

Fig opens her eyes a little more and looks up until she finds yours. She grips your chin, her thumb resting below your lip as she tickles the bend of your throat. “I get it,” she murmurs. “It’s gonna take a long time to shake Kalina and the way she got into my dreams. I’m only a little less scared than I am tired right now. But I feel safe with you, and there’s a whole house of people who would help us if anything happened.”

“That is indeed very comforting.”

You wrap one of your wings around Fig, the one that isn’t prevented from unfurling by the bed.

Fig drapes an arm over your hip as she curls into you. Her palms flare with a very weak Burning Hands spell, a pleasant and safe warmth, and you both fade into sleep.

/

Life in the following weeks is...abnormal.

You’ve read many books in your lifetimes—most of them informative, with a focus on breaking curses because that seems to be all the patrons of the library ask about. You filled a friendship section so you could be properly informed and prepared, should the opportunity present itself. And every so often, when you’re feeling sad and lonely in a way you can’t explain, you pick up a story from your very small personal collection of fiction.

You have very strict criteria for good fiction. Stories are more pleasing when they follow a consistent and logical thread—not necessarily a predictable pattern, but a narrative that considers all of its parts and leads them to a satisfying whole. You’ve kept a few books that have sad or ambiguous endings, but in this life you’re drawn to grand tales with well-deserved rewards for their characters. In your loneliness, you escape to romanticized heroes on dauntless missions and quests; heroes that save the day in the face of impossible odds, who are compensated for their success with heaps of gold and love from almost everyone they meet.

You’d never have imagined that these kinds of heroes could live in a rickety house on the outskirts of a small town.

Fig assures you that she and ~~her~~ your friends aren’t always on adventures that put them in peril, and in fact they’ll probably have to go back to school soon. She wonders what you’ll do then, and you assure her the library will keep you busy for an undetermined amount of time.

Until then, you take her cues and spend your days doing nothing.

There are different ways to do nothing, you learn. Fabian does it but his methods are wrong; Riz doesn’t know how to do nothing at all; and Gorgug has transcended to a state of nothing that is unreachable even for Fig, though not for lack of trying.

“It’s not about not doing anything,” she explains. “It’s about doing nothing on purpose.”

You crane your head in thought. “If you do nothing on purpose, isn’t that doing something?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Fig nods. “It’s, like, not that you’re not doing anything, but more like nothing is what you’re doing.”

“Nothing is the absence of something, defined by what it is not. But it’s also...an activity?”

“Or a collection of activities, yeah. Sometimes it’s just one activity with a particular attitude.”

“One activity with—please explain this in more detail.”

“Okay.” She shifts to sit up straighter, though she doesn’t move away from you. “You like to read when you’re not working, right? You find it comforting.”

“Extremely.”

“But you only read when you have the time.”

You nod. “I read when I can make significant progress on consuming a book.”

“What if you didn’t? What if you sat down and only read something for twenty minutes and didn’t even finish a chapter?”

You frown. “I would feel dissatisfied.”

“That’s kind of what doing nothing is. Not the dissatisfied part,” Fig clarifies, “but just...doing something without trying to accomplish anything. For example, there are times when I sit down and really try to write a few songs, but sometimes I just want to play to hear the sound, you know?”

“Doing nothing,” you reason, “is not a purposeless activity but rather an activity without a purpose. It’s the difference between joining a chorus of nonsense and starting one.”

Fig smiles as wide as she can. It feels like a fire has started in your chest.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Fascinating. I’ll start practicing.”

“Well, I think we can get in a couple of hours today.”

“Would you mind playing some music right now? I’d love to hear your favorite sounds.”

She kisses you instead, for a very long time.

/

The house is loud in spite of the fact that there are many people doing nothing at once. Adaine and Aelwyn are the quietest, mostly sequestered in their tower. You visit occasionally—respectfully and only when you’re wanted, of course, though Adaine hasn’t turned you away yet. Kristen and Tracker come down from the roof after a few days and from then on, there are few moments where you don’t hear Kristen laughing. She’s the liveliest, loosest cleric you’ve ever met, but her loud personality is only overwhelming for a little bit. Once you get used to it, you’re soothed by how freely she laughs. It’s pleasant enough when experienced from another room, a constant reminder that there are other people in the house, and they’re full of joy.

There are enough corners in the house for everyone to be comfortable and alone whenever they want. Jawbone and Zayn tend to the cemetery, clearing away dead leaves and touching up neglected headstones. Sandra Lynn isn’t at the house all the time, but she often spends time on the roof with Baxter if the weather is particularly nice.

Sometimes Fig looks up toward the ceiling no matter which room you’re in. You’ve learned that Fig rarely asks for anything from anyone. It takes conscious thought and deliberate effort to stop yourself from frowning whenever you think about it. You’re learning that she wants things just as intensely as you do, but you haven’t yet uncovered why she’s afraid to talk about them.

How lucky, then, that Adaine gifted you a very pertinent spell.

When Fig’s eyes start to wander skyward, you pick her up and fly to the roof. Sandra Lynn is always happy to see both of you.

Fabian and Gorgug stop by most days; sometimes you even catch a glimpse of Riz, though he’s making an effort to reconnect with his mom. You even catch him in the cemetery a few times, when the night is quiet and you need to stretch your wings. He always waves.

Fig splits her time between you and her music. Your favorite times are the days when those overlap and you can relax while she plays. You try to listen to the words of her songs but you’re distracted by the mechanics of them—her nimble fingers as they pick patterns and rhythms; the tinny creak of the strings as she slides between frets. Fig’s hands move naturally, and even when she makes a mistake she recovers quickly, turning a brief dissonance into something deliberate, something that sounds like it fits.

You know how wonderful it is to be on the receiving end of that. Fig extends an easy offer of belonging to almost everyone she meets—it’s one of her many admirable qualities, for which you have an endless well of gratitude.

“You’re staring again.”

You squawk a little and look up to find her smiling.

“I’m sorry. It’s very engaging to watch you play—you have a delicate yet fluid touch. An instrument is a very intricate thing to master.”

“Yeah? I never thought of it like that.”

“Neither did I, though to be fair I haven’t had much direct experience with music-making.”

FIg slides out of her guitar strap and props the instrument up against a chair. “Wanna get some ice cream or something? Maybe Basrar can whip something up that won’t melt for you.”

“An invaluable prize.”

Fig smiles. “We don’t have to get ice cream; we could just get out of the house and do something else. I just know if I stay here playing, I won’t have any cheesy love songs to surprise you with.”

“Oh, you can surprise me with any of the songs you just played. I have to confess I stopped paying attention to the words.”

“What!” Fig laughs and pushes playfully at your shoulder. “They’re the whole point of a song!”

“Perhaps, but I’ve found it’s very beneficial to experience something as parts first before you can understand the whole. Your melodies are enchanting for now.”

Fig’s eyes gleam in the sunlight and crinkles dig deep in the corners as she smiles. You love her most like this, soft and open and just for you.

“You’re gonna go crazy when we start touring again.”

You mirror her grin. “I hope so.”

She coaxes you onto her skateboard as you ride to the ice cream shop—your arms tight around her, your wings wide open as you fly down hills.

Fig has ruined you for any other music.


End file.
